Rest In Pieces
by rebeldivaluv
Summary: Cordelia once made a promise. Her soul can't rest until she keeps it.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Rest In Pieces**  
Fandom:** Angel  
**Pairing:** Angel/Cordelia  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers: **Through "Not Fade Away," disregards comics.  
**Summary:** Cordelia once made a promise. Her soul can't rest until she keeps it.

**Notes: **I have had the beginnings of this story on my computer for years now, and keep saying I'll finish and post it someday. Except…I never do. I think I lack motivation, and while sometimes feedback paralyzes me, at other times it is a fire that compels me forward. So, here is the beginning of what I hope to be a post-AtS epic that gives Angel and Cordelia's relationship the respect it deserves. If I don't update often, please don't hate me. And again, feedback inspires (and also terrifies)!

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Angel, there is no way Charisma Carpenter would have been replaced by James Marsters. I am poor and bitter.

**Prologue**

There was never supposed to be an "after."

He had poured everything he was into this, given his soul, signed away his future, killed his family. But there had been a deep, strangely comforting assurance in knowing that before the next sun rose over Los Angeles, his ashes would be settled with the rest of the filth in this alley behind the one building that had ever felt like home to him.

But without knowing quite how, he was still alive and fighting when he felt the first prickle of the approaching dawn. There had been unexpected help along the way; street fighters, Slayers, demon hunters Angel had never heard of all turned up and joined the fray. How many of them had fallen in a battle that was supposed to be his alone? Wes was gone before it even started. Gunn had bled out a few hours into the fight. He had lost track of Spike and Illyria, could not say if they were dead or alive, could not say if he even cared.

The demon horde had thinned considerably, hundreds killed, thousands fled. A trail of corpses littered the block around the old hotel. Even as he continued to fight – go through the motions, kick, stab, twirl, stake, repeat – Angel found himself wondering what the daytime population of the City of Angels would think of it. This was not a single body to be dismembered and disposed of before the sun rose; this was a battleground. But then, it was L.A. They would probably just think someone was shooting a film. Humans had an enviable ability to rationalize.

The warning of sunrise hummed louder in his skin. He ignored it. This was his final fight; this was his last stand. He refused to run in fear of the light. Most of the demons did not share his commitment; as the grey air softened into blue, they slunk away, into sewers and boxes and hiding holes. Self-preservation was a vaunted value for most species of the universe.

Angel's skin began to sizzle. Had he not sensed it minutes before, the smoke rising from the flesh of his hands would have told him his long overdue death approached. He closed his eyes and waited for it. There would be no redemption, no life from death. That was a fool's dream, a hope that had deserted him months, maybe years ago.

He had lost all the most important battles. He had never been able to save the people who mattered. Buffy. Doyle. Darla. Cordy. Fred. Wes. Gunn.

A strong hand seized him by the back of the neck and threw him through a boarded window. Angel had not even heard his attacker approach. He sat, dazed, among the wreckage, blinking through the dusty darkness into the hole his body had just created.

"You are foolish, vampire." The tall, lithe form of Illyria stepped into view. "You were about to be incinerated."

"Thanks for the update," Angel growled. He half-considered shoving her out of the way and rushing into the sunlight anyway, but, now that his death had been robbed of its poetic justice, it seemed a coward's action.

He shook himself off and rose carefully to his feet, only now feeling the exhaustion and the injuries of the night. Hamilton's blood had given him an added power, probably the only reason he was still standing, but the effects were wearing off.

Angel felt light-headed. It was times like this he most missed Cordy's tender post-battle care. He pushed the thought ruthlessly away, a habit he had perfected over the months without her, long before her actual death.

Illyria was staring at him, with horrible, empty eyes in the soft, beautiful face which had once belonged to Fred. It was harder to lock away memories of the gentle physicist when her form still haunted them all daily. Unlike Wesley, Angel found no comfort in that. It was a stomach-churning, bile-raising reminder of his own failure.

He turned away from the god's penetrating stare and surveyed the room around them. The smell identified it instantly as the Hyperion, but its dilapidated state and its position on the first floor, facing the alley, led him to believe it was a room which had seen very little use until Jasmine and her followers forever tainted this place.

"Your people are all gone," Illyria observed, drawing Angel out of his increasingly bitter thoughts, to give him even more reasons to brood. "You are lost. Alone. Like me."

Angel's back stiffened. There was nothing he wanted to have in common with this abomination. "Yeah, well, don't feel you have to stick around or anything. I'm sure you have…minions to find or…planets to invade. You know, stuff."

Illyria tilted Fred's head, as if pondering his words. "No. There is nothing for me anymore. But – your warriors – Wesley, Charles Gunn – what is done to honor the dead?"

"Funeral. We'll have a funeral." That was assuming they found the bodies intact. Angel winced at the thought. "Or a memorial service." He tried to think about the necessary arrangements; notifying families – _did Gunn even have a family left?_ – calling funeral homes, buying cemetery plots – _after Cordelia's funeral Wesley said he wanted to be buried at sea, not suffocated under all that dirt_. But the more he thought, the more the fatigue caught up with him. He felt like he could sleep an eternity, and, really, what was stopping him now?

"Well, it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," a far-too-cheery Spike greeted them from the broken window – the broken window through which the sun was shining brightly.

Angel could only gape, as the distinct sound of a heartbeat silenced over a century ago echoed in his ears.

"You are human. How can this be?" Illyria asked the question Angel couldn't get past his uncooperative lips.

"That's quite a story, Blue." Spike was positively preening as he sauntered into the room, staying in the path of the light as if to taunt Angel from where he hovered in the shadows. "Turns out they weren't wrong about that Shoeshine thing after all. A vampire with a soul saves the world enough times, and he gets himself a nice little jolt with the cosmic defibrillator. So I pulled a St. George, and the ticker just started going a-thumpity-thump. Kinda makes you wonder how Peaches here never managed such an easy trick, now don't it?"

As jealousy, anger, and an odd feeling of betrayal – by who or what, he wasn't sure – raged through his lifeless system, all Angel could mumble in response was a petulant, "I wanted to kill the dragon."

"Shucks. Better luck next time, Pops."

There would be no next time, of that Angel was sure. He was done with this. Done with Powers and prophecies, humanity and a redemption that would never be. All he had ever managed in his attempts to help was to add yet more sins to his already overloaded soul. No more. Angel was—

_A young woman walked a small boy down a sparsely-lighted street in Koreatown. Claws flashed in the darkness, as the screaming child was separated from his now decapitated mother. The shrieking abruptly stilled as the creature sank sharp teeth into the still-living boy…_

It was Angel who was screaming instead, as he felt the boy's pain tear through his body. He was on his knees, holding his head against the force of the vision.

"Look, I know you're upset about the Shan-shu, but isn't this a little melodramatic even for you, Peaches?"

Angel glared at Spike as he slowly rose to his feet. "I had a vision."

"A vision? Like the ones your cheerleader got? Thought you said that was a one-night only deal."

"I thought it was, too." Angel couldn't think of anything clever to say, not about this. He didn't even know how to feel about it. Relieved that his connection to the Powers – to Cordelia – was not severed? Or furious that he was once again being given no choice in his future?

"So who'll we be savin' then?"

Angel bristled at Spike's artless question. "We? Who said you had anything to do with it? You already got your walking papers from the Powers. No more superpowers, remember?" Satisfaction surged through him at the dumbfounded look on Spike's face.

Spike recovered quickly though. "None of the rest of your little groupies ever had anything goin' for 'em in the hocus pocus way, but you let them tag along."

"Yeah, and now they're all dead." Angel's voice was hard, and he shot a discreet glance at Illyria, who was quietly listening to their conversation. "Maybe it's just me, but if I were given my humanity back, I wouldn't be so quick to throw it away again."

"Why you so bloody eager to get rid of me all the sudden?"

"It's not sudden. I _always _wanted to get rid of you."

"So where do you suggest I go then?" A slow smile crept over Spike's face. "Where would you go if it was you, Peaches?"

Angel knew the reason behind Spike's smile, knew what he expected him to say, and that he had walked right into it. But Spike forgot there was still one person alive he loved more than Buffy. "See Connor. Take my son out for a game of catch in the sunshine."

"Well, ain't that just _Father Knows Best_? Doesn't work for me, though. Don't got a son. 'Course, could have one now, no prophecies or anything." Spike paused, seeming to contemplate the idea. "Could take me a trip 'round the world, make a stop in Rome, see if the cookies are ready for a nibble."

Angel no longer had the energy to play the game. "You should do that," he answered wearily.

"Don't really need your blessing, Granddad."

"Then why'd you go out of your way to get it?"

Spike looked shocked for a moment, before a small smirk played across his lips. "I figure I'll never have a better shot than now."

"There is still the Immortal, you know." Spike or the Immortal for Buffy? Both thoughts were distasteful in the extreme, but Angel knew he no longer had the grounds to object. Spike's Shan-shu had killed any possibility of Angel ever having a future to offer Buffy or any woman.

"That bloody ponce," Spike muttered. His smirk disappeared. "Still, I gotta know. Can't spend the next forty years wonderin' what woulda happened if I'd taken a shot."

Angel simply nodded, Spike's words making him think, not of Buffy, but of Cordelia, of an eternity to spend lamenting the lost chances. "So what are you still doing here? Get lost." There was a kind of rough affection in Angel's voice that he was sure he hadn't meant to be there.

"Sure you don't want any help taking care of that big nasty in your head?"

"I've got it. It won't happen until tonight anyway."

Spike frowned. "I know that Lindsey bastard told me a lot of bollocks, but seems to me that the seeing and the fighting are different gigs. That what your girl was for, right? Now your brain's all wireless connected, shouldn't you have someone handle the rough stuff for you?"

"I will fight for the vampire," Illyria proclaimed, breaking her long silence.

"The hell you will," Angel said through gritted teeth. "I said I've got it under control. Spike, wherever you end up going, take _that _with you. If it stays here, I'll kill it."

Spike knew his grandsire well enough to know he was not exaggerating. Angel had been willing to kill Illyria back when the god was all-powerful; now that she wasn't, it was a foregone conclusion.

"Buffy won't like her."

Angel smiled cruelly. "Well, that's just an added bonus, now isn't it?"

"Bloody wanker."

"Limey bastard."

Spike nodded once, a sort-of, _Can't stand to look at you, but I love you as much as I hate you, and I'll miss you, you great poof._

Angel returned the gesture and let Spike attach his own meaning to it.

"Come on, Blue. We gotta figure out how to get you past bloody customs."

The vampire watched as his last links to Wolfram & Hart and the life he had led before disappeared into the forbidden sunshine. Then he settled back into the shadows to wait for the darkness.

Once it came, he would save the woman and her son from the vision. He would do all he could to find and claim Wesley's and Gunn's bodies and put them to rest. Then he would find someplace to stay, someplace completely disconnected from the past.

Disconnect. That was all Angel longed to do. The visions would make it more difficult, of course, but he was determined that no more friends, no more people he loved, would be caught in the crossfire. That list seemed very short now: Connor, Buffy, Faith, Spike, Lorne, wherever he was. But Angel had no intentions of adding any more, just avoiding the ones who remained.

He found an old mattress among the debris and spread out. He needed rest to recuperate. Then he would think about the after.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

_Two years later_

Had to save the girl –_"Handsome man…saved me from the monsters."_ – Vampires were going to eat her – _not this one, this one's special, love her, hate her, stalk her, turn her, keep her –_ going to drain the blood from her system while she cried and struggled beneath them – _didn't want to do it, she made him, hit him, and hit him, and begged him, and oh God now he's better, but she's so pale, so pale_.

But where? Where was she – _out in the rain, covered in blood, hers and not hers, kill me, kill me, kill me – _? Wanted to. Wanted to so desperately, with the pounding of blood in his ears and on his tongue. Needed to eat. How long had it been? – _hush little baby, flash of silver, warm, thick blood that tasted like bitterness and scotch and brotherhood._

Couldn't eat yet. Had to save the girl – _too late, couldn't save her, couldn't get free, mother, lover, dead, reborn –_ Footsteps pounding on the pavement. Took a moment to realize they were his. Forgot how to be silent. Needed to remember. Was this the street? Maybe around the corner?

Been here before. Perhaps. The streets all looked the same, smelled the same. Always had – _she promised to show him the world, but he never left the alley_ – refuse and dirt and urine, the castoffs of the world. – _"I'm always alone," said the street kid with lifetimes of knowing in his dark eyes._ – Another, even more familiar scent on the air. Blood. The very word was life. Other peoples' lives, stolen and drained to stave his unending thirst.

Like a hound on the trail, he was off, chasing the delicious aroma to an even darker, smaller alley. A predator's haunt, but there was no one here now – _waiting in the darkness, silent, motionless, skin singing as the unsuspecting heartbeats came ever closer –_ only Death.

Rotting flesh was more potent than two-day old blood, flecked and smeared and staining the pavement. She was inside the dumpster – _he loved the scent of her fear, drank it in like ambrosia, as she cowered and hid in the waste, but then, "God, it's you!" and she looked like she'd just been saved _ – stripped and raped and covered with bite marks.

He gently disentangled her from the filth that had become her shroud and cradled her still form to his chest as he sank to the ground. Rocked her back and forth like a child – _run and catch, the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch _– while the tears streamed helplessly down his face.

"I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry. She was a present. Darla gave the best presents." A groan of pure, dumb agony made its way past his lips. "So sorry, Darla. Told you I'd take care of him, told you I'd tell him. Never did that, never did anything that mattered…"

His apologies drifted away to incoherent mumbles as he grieved for the woman he'd been too late to save as though he himself had been the one to break her. As the minutes – _hours? days? months? years? time had no meaning engulfed by this endless blue darkness _ – slipped by, he wasn't quite sure he hadn't. He buried his face in the neck of the nameless girl and felt in her the personification of all his sins.

"God, are you disgusting."

He thought it was yet another memory come to haunt him as he pulled back to see the alleyway blocked by the short, stocky man with the black, brimmed hat.

"Get away from me," he said, or remembered saying.

"Would if I could, buddy, but they just keep sending me back. You are one huge screw-up, you know that?"

Angel frowned, his grip on the corpse slackening as Whistler's reply diverged from memory. "What's going on?"

"What does it look like? I'm pulling your pathetic self out of the gutter. Again."

This demon had shown up before at his lowest point and given him the chance to prove himself, to make something of his wretched unlife. Brought him back into the world. Showed him Buffy. Buffy, who he had nearly destroyed, along with the world. That had led him to L.A. To Doyle. And Cordelia. To the mission. To these visions that were unraveling his mind one thread at a time.

"Not interested," Angel growled.

"Not interested in what?"

"Whatever you're selling this time." He was never meant to be somebody, be a hero. He was a demon, a freak, and these terrifying shadows were where he belonged.

"Hey, is it my fault you keep messing everything up? Falling for the Buffster. Falling for your Seer. Selling out to good old Wolfie & Hart. And then your _coup de grâce_ – signing away the Shanshu. You really are your own worst enemy."

"I'll tell you one more time: GET LOST!" Angel shifted into his true face to punctuate the point.

"Jeez, touchy. And you know the teeth don't scare me. I've got a message to deliver from our bosses, and I'd like to get home in time for _Lost_, so you're going to need to cool the rage for a minute."

Whistler's flippant tone while Angel sat in an alley surrounded by death needled him more than the voices in his head. "Say it, then, and get out." His words were barely audible through clenched jaw and gritted teeth.

"Let's take a walk." Then, remarkably, the demon's face showed pity for an instant as his eyes flitted to the woman in Angel's arms. "Leave the girl. Her people will find her soon."

Maybe it was that moment of humanity in callous Whistler that convinced him, but Angel did as he was told. Tenderly, he laid the body back down, covering the naked form with his duster. There was nothing else he could do for her. He followed Whistler out into the street.

Streetlamps cast an uncertain orange glow over the dirty pavement, but Angel was oblivious. There was a time when he knew every district, neighborhood, street of his city – both above and below ground. Now, he had no concept of where he was, how he had gotten there, or even where to find the hole-in-the-ground apartment he sometimes inhabited. When he could remember where it was.

He allowed the demon messenger to lead him away, uncaring of the final destination, as he was of the words that flowed from Whistler's mouth.

"You done messed things up good, kid. See, the Powers have a system, and it's been working pretty well since long before you were scourging Europe. There's a cosmic balance, Good and Evil, either one of them gets too far ahead, and we're all screwed. But Evil thinks that's a nice bonus, so it's always looking for a way to cheat the game. That's where Champions come in—"

Angel growled. "I'm not a damn champion. Tell the Powers to find themselves another bitch."

"That's just it. They tried. But you, once again using your brilliant flair for decision-making, sent her away."

"Huh?"

"Nice to see your conversation skills haven't gone the way of your personal hygiene. You've got a thousand voices in your head; one of them couldn't remind you to take a bath?"

"Get to the point already." Angel had guilty brooding and impending insanity to get back to; he didn't need this crap.

"Oh, right. Well, it can hardly have escaped even your notice that you made a piss-poor Champion. Constantly putting the welfare of the world behind that of the people you care about might make you a sympathetic guy, but doesn't do much for cosmic equilibrium. Your Seer got it, though; she's one hell of a trooper. Great legs, too."

Angel had Whistler against the wall, hand at his windpipe, before he could utter another word. "Leave her out of this. After what they did to her, you've got. No. Right."

Gasping for air and eyes bugging out, Whistler couldn't be expected to respond. That was fine with Angel. He further tightened his hold, for one, glorious moment imagining choking the life out of this bug of a man in retribution for the havoc that had come upon him since their first meeting. – _"You have to change the way you've been doing things. Don't you see where this is taking you?"_ – Reluctantly, Angel let him drop.

"We're done here," Angel announced to the worm wheezing at his feet. He turned and headed…away, just away.

"Can't leave her out of it," Whistler croaked. "She's the reason I'm here."

Angel froze. He felt as though he were being drawn and quartered – he'd inflicted it enough to know – parts of him being pulled in all directions until there was nothing left. The small still-rational part of his brain urged him to keep walking, to escape any more entanglements, to kill that niggling hope for some way out. That hope made him long to turn around, to believe that the one who had always saved him could do it again. His demon simply wanted to snap the toad's neck and be done with it. But, as always lately, the various pieces of his conflicted personality were drowned in a flood of images and memories so real and present he could do nothing but stand still and let her overwhelm his senses.

"_Actually it is my business – our business – 'cause we're trying to do a job here and what affects you affects me, and anyway I don't like to see you suffer more than you have to… I don't think you should blame yourself or feel guilty for her death." _– And it's her sweet, understanding presence, and soft touch and softer eyes, and this time it really was his fault. – _"She was the love of your life and she died… And you weren't there when it happened, you couldn't help her fight…you couldn't save her…you couldn't die with her."_ – And she died never knowing, that it was _her_, always her. – _"Don't make it hard, Angel. I'm just on a different road…and this is my off-ramp."_

"She gave you the visions." Whistler's voice was an unwelcome intrusion to Angel's reverie. "She understood how important it was that the cycle wasn't broken. The Powers only made so many Seers, you know, back in the day. They've been passing the visions along ever since. So for every Seer who gets the back of her skull blown out, or is turned into a psycho vamp, there's one less Champion in the world."

Whistler was up and walking again, and stupidly, blindly, Angel followed where he led. He had been caught by the very mention of her name, snared by the whisper of a memory.

"_We take what we can get, Champ. And we do our best with it."_

"'Course, she wasn't actually supposed to leave them with you. Wesley or the green, singing one would have been a better choice, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess, and she was on a time crunch. But that left us all with a new set of problems. Seer and Warrior in the same person isn't something they'd confronted before, and, given their lack of confidence in your job performance so far, they weren't exactly celebrating. But they gave you options – first to get rid of the visions, and then the fighting – have I mentioned how much you suck at this?"

Angel wasn't even pretending to follow most of what Whistler said. He didn't care about the Powers or their plans or how those plans were foiled. He was only interested in how this all related to Cordelia, and he said as much.

"The big picture is always going to escape you, isn't it?"

"Cordelia. Now."

"Yeah, the Powers finally figured that was the only way to keep their connection going, too. So you're getting her back."

The words struck Angel like a blow to the face. "I can't get her back. She's dead."

"And it's not like you have a history of ex-girlfriends who don't stay dead or anything."

Whistler pushed open a cemetery gate. Even Angel's faded sense of direction told him who was buried in this particular graveyard. He stopped, unwilling to follow the demon any longer.

"No," he said simply.

"No what?"

"You're not doing this to her. I saw Buffy when she came back; I saw Darla. Leave Cordelia where she is."

"You're comparing apples and coconuts here, Angel. The Powers didn't have anything to do with either of those events. They were unnatural, forces on earth ripping beings out of heaven and hell, where they belonged."

"So when the Powers do it, it's okay? Like when they sent her back with Jasmine inside her? That was natural?" The more Angel remembered, the more he accepted that this was happening, the angrier he became. The Powers had no right to highjack their lives again.

"Okay, you have seriously got to stop believing everything some evil schmuck tells you as the God's-honest truth. Skip was an agent for the Powers, sure, a prison guard, but he went dark, made a deal with old maggot-face. The Powers are the ones who sent Cordelia the visions of what was to come – the ones she couldn't tell you about, because Jasmine had too strong a hold. They did their best; not their fault your Seer turned off her brain the minute Skip started spouting about 'the mission.' We don't have a copyright on that one, you know, though it's something to look into."

"Don't talk about her that way. She gave her life for your damn mission."

"Then isn't it nice of us to give it back again?" Whistler stepped through the gate and into the darkened cemetery. He didn't bother looking back to see if Angel followed.

The vampire watched from outside the fence as Whistler's steps led unswervingly toward the northwest side of the graveyard, directly toward the final resting place of Cordelia Chase. Every muscle in his body tightened, his eyes flashed gold, and Angel was on the demon's trail. He wouldn't let them do this, not to Cordy. If anyone deserved eternal peace, it was her.

Whatever spell or incantation Whistler planned to invoke, he would never get the chance. Angel brought him to ground the moment he reached her headstone.

"I said NO." The rage which had been building inside since Whistler's return was finally released. He pulled the smaller man up by the shoulders, only to pummel him back to the ground. Angel's fists flew without mercy. He took perverse glee in the sound of crunching bone, the sight and smell of rich, red blood. He was unaware of slipping into his true face, but he wouldn't have cared had he known.

A punch to the gut for every time he had seen her drop to the floor with a vision. Raps to the head to bring on the migraines which had haunted her for years. She had been victimized, mentally raped, undone by the world's pain. All for Whistler's Powers, Whistler's mission. And now they wanted to do that to her again? He would kill them first, the whole lot of them. He would start here and now.

"She's…alive," Whistler choked between blows.

Angel froze, fist in midair. And in the sudden silence, he could hear, distantly, through layers and layers of earth, a heartbeat. Fast, frightened, and so familiar. "Cordelia." The word was a mere whisper as he dropped his hold on the half-dead messenger and sank before her grave.

"She's already…back, Angel. Are you…really willing to…let her go again?" Whistler's voice trailed off into a hacking cough. He spat blood.

Angel sat motionless on the ground. Her heartbeat was steadily growing louder, as his ears honed in on that long-denied sound, until even Whistler's labored breathing failed to register. He felt the rhythm of her blood inside his own skin.

It was easy when the offer was made to reject it, to say she was better off where she was. In theory, walking away from Cordelia Chase had never been harder than leaving anyone else in his life. He was better off alone. But Cordy herself was never abstract, never to be reasoned away. Her heartbeat was like her personality itself, strong and uncompromising and overwhelming his senses.

And the longer he sat there, the more air she used in that small coffin, the closer she came to slipping away.

His decision made, Angel rose and did a quick survey around him. Twenty yards away stood a small potting shed. Disregarding the suffering Whistler, he headed straight for it. The lock was a minor annoyance, quickly dispensed with; then he was inside, smells of freshly mown grass and old earth rolling over his sensitive nostrils.

Angel's exceptional night vision allowed him to take inventory even in the darkness of the windowless shack. A riding lawnmower occupied the bulk of the space, with bags of potting soil littering the floor around the edges of the room. A series of shelves lined one wall and were covered with dead flowers, half-melted candles, and tattered ribbons. The opposite wall contained the treasures Angel sought – yard tools. Rakes, hoses, trowels, and shovels. He grabbed the largest shovel he could see and raced back to Cordelia's grave.

He had stood all night by this grave before, his unbeating heart growing a little bit deader with every shovelful of dirt that covered over the body of his best friend. The funeral had been at dusk, in deference to Angel's place in her life, and the darkness had never seemed so fitting as when they took her out of his life – _golden skin, the sun and moon, the light that burned and healed him_. Their increasingly disjointed family had pulled together for the event – _Fred, Lorne, Gunn, Wesley, one by one, they slipped away, as they would do again_ – but Angel hadn't left until the warning of dawn in the air had forced him from the spot.

He hadn't returned from that day to this.

The grass had grown over the grave, until the lines that marked the beginning and end of his world had faded away. It looked like any other plot of ground in this place of death. Even her headstone was relatively anonymous. Just her name, the dates that marked the bookends of her life, and OUR HEART etched in cryptic tribute to a woman no amount of words could describe.

Angel sank the shovel deep beneath the earth and hoisted out a pile of fertile brown dirt. Somewhere, deep inside him, there was a relieving of pressure. If he breathed, he might compare it to the first rush of oxygen after swimming underwater. But he didn't, and it wasn't like that. It was like surfacing from beneath wood and loam and finding Mother waiting with an approving smile and a _darling boy_.

Only it was she who was coming to him. He would pull off this ill-fitting shroud, she would return to his arms, and he would never let her leave. He would sink his teeth deep into her throat and drain her life and blood into him, keeping her for eternity.

Horrified by the impulse, Angel let the shovel drop and fell back into the half-exhumed grave. He ran a hand over his face and found his fangs sharp and ready. "NO!" With a cry, he jumped back up to the grass, away from temptation. Her heartbeat still rang in his ears, somewhat slower now, as though lulled in sleep…or already drifting away.

"Oh, what now?"

Angel whirled to find Whistler propped against a nearby grave marker. The demon looked almost as pale as Angel, and he held his arm at an odd angle. "Shouldn't you be on your way to a hospital by now?" There was no remorse in Angel's voice.

"Can't. Not allowed to leave until you get her out of there, so you can see where the frustration comes in. I could be halfway through a morphine drip if you'd just get with the program. Why'd you stop digging?"

Denial took effort, and Angel was too tired to try. "I want to drink her," he muttered.

"To borrow a Cordy-ism, _duh_. You're a vampire. And a pretty damn crazy one, as my ulna and radius are ready to confirm."

"So what's the point of bringing her back just to kill her again?"

"Has there ever been a time you _haven't_ wanted to drink her?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to believe that in those moments when she had brought her sparkling joy and zest for life into his dark, dreary world, he had felt nothing but reflected happiness. But the hunger roiling in his belly belied him. Even then, _especially _then, he had wanted to consume her, feel her in his veins, make her his forever.

Slowly, Angel shook his head.

"But you never did. She's dead if she stays down there much longer, so I'd say her odds are better even with psycho-you."

Whistler was less reassuring than Angel hoped he would be. Of course, the demon was sitting in a pool of his own blood, entirely from Angel's doing, so maybe he wasn't feeling that optimistic about Cordy's chances either.

Angel reached for the pocket of his duster, before remembering he'd left it with the dead woman. He turned back to Cordelia's grave, grabbed the discarded shovel, and broke it over his knee. Then he marched over to Whistler and held out the half with the handle to him.

"Should I take this as your resignation?"

"I go near her neck, stake me."

Whistler looked at the splintered end from the break and chuckled. "No problem."

Broken shovel in hand, Angel went back to work. Cordelia's heartbeat sounded louder now, as inch by inch the dirt was removed, but he refused to let himself get lost in it again. That way led to danger.

He focused instead on the rich, brown earth – _the color of her hair, lustrous and flowing _– on the flash of silver – _every movement in time with his, body moving in a dangerous, deadly dance, lithe and sinuous motion with strength and steel in her hand – _every time the shovel came down.

Until the moment he hit the solidity of her coffin, that bed of death, and all he could think of was getting to her – _"I need Cordy. Now. Wherever she is, whatever she's going through…" _– a single-minded devotion which had always captured him where she was concerned.

Angel gave up on the shovel and scooped the remaining dirt away with his hands. His nails sinking deep into the loam recalled his own rise over two centuries ago. He saw the white of her coffin, the latch for the lid, and wrenched it open without another moment to second-guess his actions.

Warm hazel eyes blinked up at him, and he stood frozen, unable to believe it, afraid to move and find it all another delusion.

"Took you long enough."

It was her. She was real. He yanked her to him, held her so tightly that neither air nor light, life nor death could separate them again. Buried himself in her scent, the feel of her skin, the warmth of her body.

"Cordy…" The word was a groan, a greeting, a prayer.

She stroked a soothing pattern along the lines of his back. "Missed you too, big guy. But kinda missed breathing more."

Lost in her, he didn't notice the hint, until she moved her hands to his chest and tried to push. "Need air here, Angel."

"Oh. Sorry."

He let her go, but his hands sought out her face, tracing every well-known, well-loved feature. "Cordelia." Fingers danced across her hair, temple, the smooth line of her cheek, strong jaw, and full lips.

She jumped away from the contact. "Uh, not to break up a moment here, but I didn't come back to clean up your dust."

"What?" Angel felt sluggish, drugged by her presence.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and pointed up to the gray-tinged sky. "Sunrise, dumbass. We've got to get you inside." She lifted herself out of the coffin, then stood smoothing out the wrinkles in her – _not black, anything but black, she wouldn't like it, wouldn't approve; red, red for passion, red for desire and life and blood _– dress.

"I realize practicality wasn't the main issue when putting me six feet under, and trust me, I appreciate how fantastic I look, but before we do any ass-kicking, I am definitely going to need new shoes."

Angel's gaze drifted to Cordelia's feet, where the heels of her stilettos had disappeared in the soft earth. His eyes drew a path back up, over her endless legs and unforgettable curves, to lock onto the irritated expression on her face. For the first time since he couldn't remember when – _sitting in a coffee shop, facing his son and drinking in every word, every look, it could be the last one _– he felt a real smile pull at his lips. "Anything you want."

"You can put money on that one. But, for starters, let's work on that not bursting into flames thing, mmkay? Here," walking to the edge of the hole Angel had dug, "give me a lift."

Obedient as ever to the Queen's commands, Angel knelt and cupped his hands for her to step on. Slowly, he rose, giving Cordelia the extra height she needed to touch the ground and pull herself over. An easy jump brought Angel up by her side.

The sun was already casting a smoggy orange hue over the horizon. Angel grabbed Cordelia's hand in his and pulled her toward the shed he had found earlier, the closest available shelter. He saw her eyes land on the blood-soaked ground as they passed, but she said nothing. Whistler was nowhere to be seen.

"We can wait the day out here," he said as he ushered her into the small space.

Once the door was closed, only tiny pinpricks of light slipped under the threshold. There were no windows, and while Angel could see Cordelia clearly, he knew she was virtually blind.

"Angel?"

"Right here." He tugged on her hand, and she stumbled a step closer to him.

Cordelia's fingers drifted up his arms to his face, where she copied Angel's earlier caress. Her soft, warm touch burned him as much as the sun ever could, as she stroked the ridges of his brow, and down along his cheeks, his chin, his mouth.

"First things first," she whispered, and then she kissed him.

Angel was paralyzed by the first brush of her lips against his. It was something out of a dream – _the waves crashed against the rock, as he crushed her to himself _– too beautiful to be real – _the sun had returned outside, but all he wanted was here in this room with her _– sure to slip away if he reached out to touch her – _"That, you have to get." _

But she was still here, and oh so real, as she coaxed his lips to soften against hers, challenged him to give of himself, as she had always given: without reservation. Something broke free inside of him, some surrender of the heart and mind, as he mentally echoed his earlier words to her, _Anything you want, Cordy. Anything, as long as I have you._

He reached for her, but she broke off the kiss, as gently as she began it. Angel's eyes opened in confusion, only to see the strange blue light disappear between her moist lips.

"Cordy…"

"I don't suppose you see any light around here for the less cat-like among us?" Her words were quick and flippant, but something lay beneath them – a lingering confusion, or was it pain?

"Cordelia, what was that all about?" He put his hands on her shoulders, only to have her shrug him off, turn away.

"Jeez, Angel, I realize it's been a while, but you do remember what a kiss is, right?" She took a few steps in the darkness, before—"OW!" She bounced up and down, holding a sore foot. "Angel. Light. Now!"

The half-burned candles Angel had noticed earlier were easily located; finding matches took a few minutes longer. Then, the room was bathed in flickering light, light that played strangely against Cordelia's features. She wasn't looking at him, choosing instead to study the contents of the shelves as though the latest issue of _Cosmo_ might be found there.

The lawn mower was an unwanted barrier between them, but even though Angel's hands itched to hold her, to be sure of her, he couldn't bring himself to cross the distance. Everything in Cordelia's body language screamed _don't touch me_. Apprehension gnawed at Angel's belly; all the fear and anger he felt upon first hearing of Cordelia being sent back returned a hundredfold.

"I didn't have anything to do with it."

Her head shot up, finally looking at him. "With what?"

"Bringing you back. I told Whistler to leave you in heaven, where you belonged. I never wanted you to have to deal with this again." _Deal with me again_.

"I know, Angel. I—" She paused, frowned. "Oh God, I don't know where to start. This is all so much harder than I thought it would be."

He waited, a silent statue. He would have liked to help her, but he didn't know how. He had never known how to help Cordelia, not really.

"I was never in heaven, Angel."

Her words came out so quickly, falling over one another, it was a moment before Angel could grasp their meaning. "You mean…after all you did for them – those bastards – how could they send _you_ of all people to—"

"I wasn't in hell, either."

"Then where?" Even as he asked, Angel found he didn't care. Wherever it had been, it hadn't been with him, and that was hell itself.

"Just…waiting, I guess. Limbo, purgatory, whatever you want to call it. Waiting. And I know you didn't have anything to do with bringing me back." She took a deep breath, but her eyes never wavered from his as she confessed, "I did that."

The Cordelia in front of him suddenly merged with the girl who had lain covered in boils and insisted she needed the visions to help him.

"For me?" he managed to choke.

"Not just for you. Sheesh, ego much? Did I not mention the waiting and waiting and waiting? You try a couple years in a whitewashed room with nothing to do but watch your best friend go batshit and see if you don't jump at the first chance to return to the land of Kung-Pao chicken and Dolce & Gabbana."

"You could see me?"

"Yeah, somehow I got stuck in the room with twenty-four hour brood-o-vision. Although, gotta tell you, the puppet thing? Almost made it worth it."

"I'm sorry."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Listen, Angel, can we lay off the apologies until you're sane enough to know what to be sorry _for_? Here, help me with these." She ducked behind the lawnmower.

Curious, Angel traveled around the obstruction to see Cordelia spreading the soil bags flat on the floor of the shed. "What are you doing?"

"Making you a bed. We're going to be stuck here all day, and I know you haven't slept in, what, a week now? You're overdue for a vamp nap, big guy."

Angel helped Cordelia lift and arrange the bags without further comment. His mind buzzed with questions, some more coherent than others, but he found it difficult to phrase them. He was almost afraid to hear her answers.

Finally, one question had to be asked. "How long will you stay?"

Cordelia looked up from her task. Pain and sympathy flickered across her face. "I made you a promise once, Angel. Do you remember? I said I'd be with you until you worked your way out. Turns out the Powers were listening."

He remembered that moment. On the heels of his most recent failure, this bright, beautiful, fearless girl had turned to him and pledged to stay at his side. He had not deserved the sacrifice then. He certainly did not deserve it now.

"I'm—"

"Say you're sorry again, and, vampire strength or not, I'll kick your ass. It was my promise, Angel. You never asked it of me. I thought I fulfilled it when I handed you the visions, thought you would kick lawyer butt and Shanshu by Christmas. Didn't figure you'd go all noble sacrifice on me and pass it on, but I should have. I mean, you wouldn't be _you_ if you didn't. Still, trust me, any Powers listening got an earful when Spike took it instead."

Angel frowned. "Wait a minute. You mean, you're back with another Shanshu?"

"Something like that. The Powers needed a Seer and Warrior team to help some hopeless, so they offered me the chance to come back. I guess they thought I'd be so happy to be breathing again, I wouldn't talk terms." She smiled, a deadly, million-dollar Cordelia Chase smile. "I drove a hard bargain, but I got it. We get L.A. back in balance, I pass on the visions to someone who can handle them, and you get your long overdue introduction to sunbathing."

It was unbelievable. "This has to be a delusion," Angel muttered, then explained to Cordelia, "I've been having them a lot lately."

"I know." She sat on the makeshift bed and reached out a hand for his. Angel took it and felt once again the reality-confirming heat of her skin. "But this isn't a delusion, Angel. I came back to help you, and I will. It will take time, but you will get better. You'll start to trust yourself and me again."

"I've always trusted you."

"Even when you shouldn't have," Cordelia added with a sad, almost bitter smile. "But for now, trust me when I say, you need sleep."

Angel could not deny that truth. His head was spinning, reeling from sleep deprivation and too long without blood. Still, he hesitated. "What if you're gone when I wake up?" He grasped Cordy's hand tighter, brushed his fingers against her pulse and felt the life's blood pumping through.

"I won't be. Lie down."

Angel obeyed, but he tugged on her hand. "Stay with me."

Cordelia bit her lip in an instant of self-doubt very unlike her, but then she nodded and eased herself down beside him on the bags of soil. She stayed to the extreme left edge, with only their joined hands connecting them in the middle. "Good night, Angel. Er, well, good morning, actually, but sleep tight, sweet dreams, whatever the kids are saying these days."

Angel closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the comfort of Cordelia's fingers laced with his. It wasn't enough. She was too far away; his hold on her was tenuous. She could disappear while he slept, another torture from the cursed Powers. He reached for her waist and pulled her body into his.

"Angel—" Cordy's warning was shaky at best, and not near enough to dissuade him. Her hands rested unresisting against his chest.

Opening his eyes, Angel pressed his forehead softly against hers. "Cordy, please. I don't want anything. I just want to be sure that...I just want to be sure."

He was close enough to feel her breath against his face. His hands rose and fell with the expansion of her ribcage. Her heartbeat was music seeping into his pores.

"Fine," she agreed, slowly relaxing into his embrace. "But I'm warning you. If you snack in your sleep, I am not coming back from the dead to save your ass again."

Angel smiled as his eyes drifted shut again. "I love you, Cordy."

He was asleep before he could be bothered that Cordelia didn't say it back.


End file.
